The Place Between Evenings

I came upon a shore
that did not belong to the sea.

The water was there—yes—
but it had the stillness
of something remembering itself.

A pale moon hung low
as though the sky had forgotten
to lift it higher.

Grass moved in slow circles
around my feet,
though no wind could be found.

Far across the water
stood a row of trees
I almost recognized—

like people
I had once loved
in another life
or another dream.

A narrow path appeared
whenever I looked away
and vanished
when I tried to follow it.

Once—
or perhaps several times—
I heard music.

Not played,
exactly.

More like the air itself
had been holding a melody
for centuries
and was quietly letting it out.

I thought someone
was walking beside me.

But when I turned

there was only the long silver lake
and the slow drifting clouds
and the strange feeling
that the evening
had paused

just slightly

to see
what I would do next.

I stayed there a while.

Or perhaps
I am still there—

standing where the shore
refuses to decide

whether it belongs
to water

or to land

or to the dream
that remembers both.